


How Do You Cope?

by Cotton_Fluff_Candy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aaron Hotchner Needs a Hug, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Bird Watching, Boxing, Coping, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Garcia is the best, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt, Hurt Derek Morgan, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, No the whole thing is not about agere, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Protective Derek Morgan, San Diego Comic-Con, Shopping, Spa Treatments, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Spencer Reid-centric, There will be another work I promise, just Reid, separate storylines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cotton_Fluff_Candy/pseuds/Cotton_Fluff_Candy
Summary: The members of the BAU each find their own unique way to cope with the stresses of their job.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Haley Hotchner
Kudos: 40





	1. Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! This is the first fanfic that I've ever posted! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garcia finds that the line between fiction and reality is thinner than she previously thought.

Today, Penelope Garcia was not the High Chairman of All Things Technologically Wonderful and Brilliant.

Nor was she Sole Occupant of the Cavern of Infinite Knowledge.

She was not getting calls from Spencer Holmes, or JJ Gadget, or Hardtack Hotchner, or Bossy Rossi, or Emily Princess, or even her sweet, sweet Chocolate Thunder regarding yet another mutilation or murder. 

No. 

Today, she had cast aside her duties as mild-mannered FBI Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia and instead assumed the role of Zara Coltaire of the Merryisles, half-dragon sorcerer-in-training and swordfighter extraordinaire. 

Garcia would never have been caught dead by her teammates wearing a white Spandex suit and carrying a large scepter made of stolen river rocks and hot glue. She felt like a sausage stuffed into its skin. She was sweating underneath her makeup. Her feet were exhausted, but her tail was preventing her from sitting down properly, and it needed to be removed via a tedious process before every trip to the bathroom. She had been eating nothing but fried food for five days straight and everything smelled like B.O.

But Penelope Garcia - no, Zara Coltaire of the Merryisles - was having the time of her life.

Garcia wore an enormous smile on her face as she walked from booth to booth, admiring buttons and bags and body pillows of her favorite characters - and characters she had never seen before - as she passed. Was that a panel for her favorite mystery show happening in an hour? Was that person dressed as a pink pony? Was she going to get sucked into a fandom she had never even heard of for hours on end? The answer to all of these things, she told herself, was an invariable yes. After all, after months and months of being told no, she deserved it.

The team had been strangely curious as to why Garcia had requested six days off to fly to San Diego, California the first time she had asked her boss. She had been afraid of Aaron Hotchner’s prying questions in particular. My aunt lives in California, she’d said to cover her tracks. I’d love to get out there and visit her over a weekend. And it was, partially, the truth. But would half-truth be enough? It didn’t look like it. They needed her on the team, Hotch had told her, his serious look as unwavering as ever. Is this trip a necessity?

Garcia had swallowed and said she’d get back to him.

Jumping immediately into her online chatroom the moment she sat down at her home computer, she began to fret about the idea of leaving her post. Would it be irresponsible for her to disappear for nearly a week? Would the team suffer without her? What if the life of a young girl was on the line and it would take Garcia to make or break the case? She couldn’t imagine Morgan desperately needing her to run a plate only for her to send him to voicemail. The time just wasn’t warranted. It wasn’t for Christmas or Easter or anything that might pacify her guilt. No, it was just Garcia taking six days off in the middle of June - even though the convention was only four - to fly to Comic Con. She told her friends that she was reconsidering buying her tickets.

The chatroom instantly exploded. _How could you do this to yourself?_ They’d bearated her. _You’ve been saving up and making your cosplay and talking about this for months!_ Garcia bit her lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard, her mind baffled by indecision. I can’t let my coworkers down, she’d said. I feel so selfish.

 _Would they let u recuperate in the hospital?_ One of her friends, pickledfingers47, had asked her. 

Of course, she said. Everyone was trying to get E and S to stay down for way longer than they were. But this was different, she insisted.

 _How is it different?_ He retorted. _You need time to heal ur heart and brain as much as u need to recover ur body after u break a bone or get sick or something._

Garcia huffed. I’m not sick.

 _Yeah right. you haven’t been doing that great, glimmer,_ he said, referring to her by her username. _You’ve been crying like, every day this month._

Garcia, right on cue, felt the tears well up in her eyes. The others in the group chat seemed to agree with Pickle’s sentiment. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Her chest was so heavy with guilt and stress. She was tired. That was the only word to describe it. From the very bottom of her heart, from the most selfish and uncaring part of her soul, she was tired. The world seemed so gray and lifeless, as though with every file she opened, another spark of humanity fizzled and died. Comic-Con seemed so full of life, and humanity, and stories with happy endings. How she had looked forward to meeting her online friends in person, seeing the creators of her favorite media in real life! How she longed to ride a commercial airplane and stop to get taquitos if she felt like it, to take photos of landmarks without a corpse somewhere in the image. How she desired to throw herself into a world that was built around honor and friendship instead of deception and lies, even if it was only temporary bliss.

 _Just six days,_ they coaxed her. _Take care of yourself. You work so hard. You deserve it._

She deserved it.

Her mind made up, Garcia marched into Hotch’s office the next morning and confirmed that she wanted the time off. Hotch nodded and agreed to let her have the weekend. He told her to enjoy her time with her aunt.

It was the best decision Garcia had ever made in her entire life.

She went to Comic-Con with maybe two selfies and a few cat pictures saved on her phone, and had come back with a memory card bursting with costumes, laughter, smiles, food, artwork, and antics. People came in closet cosplay and thousand-dollar fursuits, were dressed as genderbent or show-accurate or AU characters. They interacted with each other in character, swapped inside jokes and references, made memories. Garcia tackled her online friends with hugs, so small, so tall in real life! Everyone was a nerd at Comic-Con. Everyone was weird. Everyone was so happy. She spent the last day before her flight home on her aunt’s front porch, eating candied peanuts, telling stories, and petting Mandy, her fussy Sharpei. She nestled into her aunt’s hug one last time, feeling her fingers tousle her hair just as they did when Garcia was little. 

The whole experience was absolutely addicting.

Garcia had returned to the BAU to find a team that had done just fine without her, even though they had missed her terribly, Morgan had assured her. Knowing that they had been alright, Garcia readily accepted the feeling inside her that being at Comic-Con had recharged her batteries better than any corporate retreat that the BAU - nay, the whole FBI! - could dream up. She set up her impulse buys - multiple vinyl characters, a throw pillow emblazoned with a crest, a handful of pins and posters - around her office and turned on every light she could find. For once, ignoring the glare on her computer screens, Garcia opened the window. Everyone on the team noticed the uptick in her mood. They asked a few probing questions, and Garcia simply told them that the Sunshine State had been exactly as refreshing as advertised.

This happened every year.

Sometime in June, the BAU would see Garcia leave for six days and manage their cases by themselves for a time, only to have their favorite Technical Analyst return to them with gifts and kisses. It was almost worth being away just to see Morgan’s eyes light up upon her arrival.

Zara Coltaire of the Merryisles was about to pose with someone wearing a particularly detailed Gragonrok the Great costume on the sidewalk outside of a crowded restaurant she and her friends were visiting - only to find that her phone had once again reached its capacity. Garcia was crushed. Her last few hours at Comic Con, she had found the perfect cosplay of Zara’s nemesis to pose with, and she had no space left on her phone! Drat! But just as she was about to feel the disappointment of the situation bring tears to her eyes, her friend had stepped in and offered to take the photo for her. She posed with him, giddy with joy. Their groups had decided to eat together and then peruse the streets of a nearby city. That night was regarded unanimously as the best night of Comic Con to date.

Six months later, in the cold, dead month of January, with snow piling up outside the closed window, the tea Garcia made did nothing to warm the ache inside her. More blood. More injury. More warnings and threats. More bad guys than any good guys could ever hope to catch. The FBI wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t good enough. There would always be too many of them. Maybe evil would prevail today, even though those weren’t supposed to be the rules. The good guy was always supposed to win. So why was she staring at a young man with ligature marks around his ring finger, sliced into his skin just hours before he was supposed to get married? 

She felt as though the entire world rested on her shoulders, as though every ounce of energy had been drained from her body. She had read the same sentence eight times and did not process what it said. Hotch and Morgan were counting on her. They needed this information. They needed it badly. But she just couldn’t do it any longer. Garcia put her head on the desk and began to cry.  
Out of the silence, her phone pinged.

Lifting her head from the desk, Garcia quickly opened the text message.

 _Sorry, was going thru old pics and realized I forgot to send this to you!_ Pickledfingers47 said. Miss u lots girlie :)

The picture was of her, dressed in her Zara costume, holding the throat of her arch nemesis. The complete stranger who had posed with her, who had laughed with her, who had told her that she had the best Zara cosplay he had seen all night. 

Sent by her friend, who had been wearing a pink pony costume since he had lost a bet the year before. 

A conversation that Garcia had with her aunt the night before her flight home came rushing back to her. 

“You don’t owe the world your sorrow,” she had said. The street lamps were coming on, throwing a soft light over the warm Californian dusk. “We weren’t put on this earth to see all the suffering that ever existed and feel the need to do something about it like some knight in shining armor. We were put on this earth for parties with neighbors … and driving friends to the DMV … and packing shoeboxes for children … and telling our friends that we love them.” She smiled at her niece with wrinkly brown eyes. “And I think that’s enough.”

“But Auntie, we can’t just stand by and do nothing,” Garcia had insisted. “There’s just too many things wrong with the world to not even try.”

“Not even try? Penelope, I raised you better than that,” Her aunt chastised her. “I never said not to try.”

“But I don’t think it is enough to just … live in your own bubble.”

“You don’t do that,” Her aunt reminded her. “You’re one of the heroes living on the front lines. You are the difference that other people need in their lives.”

“So why are you telling me that I’m … doing too much?”

“I’m telling you that you worry too much.”

“Worry too much? Auntie, that’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is you trying to take on the world’s problems by yourself. Why do you think there are so many people on this planet, Penelope? Because if all of us - all of us - cared about our neighbors a little more, then we wouldn’t need people like you and your friends to help us out.”

“Some people aren’t capable of loving anyone,” Garcia mumbled, looking down into her wine glass as though the answers to her questions might be sitting at the bottom.

The answer came instead from her aunt’s lips. “Penelope. Saving the world is a volunteer position. Being loving to everyone you meet - in your church, your school, your home - is required of all people. And Penelope, hear me when I say this: saving the world is what you do. Kindness is who you are.”

Garcia could still feel her aunt’s kiss on her forehead. 

She sniffled and pulled a tissue from the box in her drawer, leaning back in her chair to clear her sinuses. Perhaps, if her aunt was right, it was enough that she had made Gragonrok the Great’s night. Perhaps it was enough that she had bought a cupcake for Reid’s birthday. Perhaps it was enough that she had helped that older gentleman with his groceries and had taken the time to hold a friendly conversation with him. Perhaps it had been enough that Pickle credited the survival of his senior year of college to her jokes and encouragement. 

Perhaps it was enough that Penelope was kind.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough that the rest of the world was kind too - that strangers had helped her find her terminal, that a coworker pressed the button for her on the elevator, that the worker at the pet store had made an exception for her to hold a kitten when nobody else was around. She remembered those acts. She remembered those moments. They had made an impact on her. She had come to expect them from her community, despite her lack of faith in humanity. She realized that thought process was, in fact, an oxymoron.

The thought occurred to her that maybe everyone was a cosplayer in some way; that all people tried to emulate the values that they saw as best for society. Maybe it didn’t take the form of longswords or tights, but rather their actions, their words. How many kids tried to be like the courageous characters on their bedsheets and movie screens? How many men had learned about fatherhood, emotion, and romance from novels they read? How many women had found a new fashion style to express themselves with or seen their greatest flaws overcome in female TV characters? How many people, day in and day out, tried to present themselves as something rooted in honor and grace and mercy and justice, pushed themselves to be stronger and brighter and better than the people that Garcia was unfortunate enough to see?

How many days had Garcia spent trying to fake her coworkers into thinking she was the happy, lovely person she wished she was?

But maybe that wishing was enough. Maybe the idea that she wanted to be kind meant that she really was kind at heart. Bad people don’t worry about being bad people, she reasoned. They never have. Look at any unsub. 

And maybe her deep love for other people - the desire to help them - was reflected back at her every day in the little ways that she had taken for granted before.

Maybe goodness didn’t come with a disguise.

Garcia lifted her chin and looked directly into the eyes of the man who had just committed yet another foul wrongdoing. Her stomach twisted at the thought of the young man’s body laying spread-eagle on his bed.

But today, another devil would be thrust into the pits of Seoul. Today, Garcia knew who she could trust. Today, Garcia saw goodness, a light at the end of the tunnel. Today, evil wouldn’t win. And even if everything went wrong and evil won the battle after all, she knew in her heart that someday it would lose the war. The war that millions of people fought every day just by saying hello to their neighbor.  
She picked up her phone, brimming with resolve once more, and called Morgan.

It was time to be a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to know more about Garcia's coping mechanism, please head to https://www.comic-con.org/ and consider participating in your favorite fandoms by creating art, writing, sculpting, painting, or giving lots of feedback on your favorite works! Also, remember to be safe and never give out your real name or location on the internet - even though Garcia has lots of internet friends, she also has immediate background checks at her disposal and can verify that her friends are safe to talk to!


	2. Relive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer discovers that the joys of childhood are not limited to the elementary years.

Dr. Spencer Reid’s messenger bag slouched to the floor.

Spencer was tired. Really tired. Exhausted. Drained. Wiped. Dead on his feet.

So tired, in fact, that when he got into his apartment late one Wednesday evening, his legs gave out on him. He slid onto the linoleum floor before he even had a chance to lock the door. He put his face in his hands, feeling them tremble. God, this had been a hard case. Images of carved smiles and scrawled ransom notes were bouncing around like a pinball machine in his brain. He tried everything he could think of to get it out, get it out, get it out - music, reading, reciting a poem or two. Nothing had worked. He was utterly trapped in this hellscape and he was afraid he might lose his mind. Was this it? Was this the case that would tip him over the edge? Was he doomed to have these images play in his mind forever? Would he grow numb to them, even be amused by them?

_Are we to grow used to the idea that every man relives ancient torments, which are all the more profound because they grow comic with repetition? That human existence should repeat itself, well and good, but that it should repeat itself like a hackneyed tune, or a record a drunkard keeps playing as he feeds coins into the jukebox…_

Solaris.

Spencer took a handful of his hair in his hands and gripped it tightly, pulling on his scalp harshly. The pain, though excruciating, was grounding. Taking a few steadying breaths, he made himself stand up and go about soothing himself via the only comfort he had left - his nightly routine.

The first to go were his shoes, always the left and then the right. The same way you read, back and forth, back and forth. They were to be aligned with a particular square by the door, next to his other shoes.

Next was the messenger bag, lifted from the floor and placed on the hook that the previous tenants had drilled into the wall at a crooked angle. Spencer had always been annoyed by the crookedness, but he wasn’t sure he had the skills to fix it - let alone the tools. So, he left it, every day, and let it raise his anxiety just a touch every time he saw it.

Turning away from the messenger bag, Spencer took his keys and dropped them into the ceramic bowl by the front door. He walked into his bedroom and flicked on the light, then rustled around in his drawers for a pair of pajamas. He lifted them carefully from the drawer and placed them on the bed so that they remained folded until he was ready to put them on. 

Tie comes off first, on a hanger, in the closet. Shirt, in the laundry. Belt, in a storage unit, in the closet. Pants, in the laundry. Socks …

His socks were covered in dinosaurs. One of them had a silly face.

Socks could stay on.

Spencer stepped into his pajamas. He didn’t have the energy to shower tonight. He couldn’t make himself. But he knew that he needed to eat or Rossi would yell at him again.

He stumbled into the kitchen, feeling burdened by his senses. Even the soft glow of his kitchen lights, which were usually too dark to see by, were enough to induce a small headache. He knew that nothing he ate could be flavorful tonight, or he might cry. He just needed something simple. Something gentle. God, he needed something gentle.

_Live in the wisdom of accepted tenderness. Tenderness awakens within the security of knowing we are thoroughly and sincerely liked by someone…_

Manning.

He opened his freezer and pulled out chicken nuggets. A staple food.

Did his team like him? Spencer wondered. It was an age-old demon that he had not the energy to fight off tonight. He would let it nestle in his mind, let his thoughts grow weak.

I’m not weak.  
_Yes, you are._

Spencer listened to the demon purr in his ear. _Of everyone in the BAU, Morgan picks on you the most. Of everyone in the BAU, Hotch silences you the most. Of everyone in the BAU, Garcia calls you the least. Of everyone in the BAU, Rossi avoids you the most. Of everyone in the BAU, JJ babies you the most._

Being babied doesn’t sound so bad right now, Spencer thought numbly, pulling out a freshly-baked tray of chicken nuggets. The smell was mouth-watering. 

_Are you hearing yourself? You want to be babied? You know how immature and ... straight-up weird that is, right?_

I don’t want all my problems to be solved for me, Reid told himself for the hundredth time. I just want to be safe.

Suddenly, an unwelcome thought came like a brick to the face.

I miss my mother.

Even as Reid was still in shock, the demon snarled. _Your mother was a schizophrenic layabout!_ It spat. You don’t miss her. You miss what you thought she was. You miss the moments she cared about you, as few and far between as they are. You miss what you wanted her to be.

“Why shouldn’t I miss it?” Spencer said aloud, reaching for the lukewarm bottle of ketchup in his kitchen cupboard. Remembering how acidic it was, he thought better of it and looked for ranch dressing instead. He could really use some of that people-liking-him security Manning was talking about. Nobody had loved him more than his mother, in her own sick, twisted way.

Spencer’s eyes prickled a little as more negative thoughts careened through him. God, I’m supposed to be an adult! What a joke. I can’t prove myself. I’m not a real man, I don’t have the guts, or the voice, or the stature or the experience or the wisdom, and I can’t take social cues and I can’t stop thinking about the cases -

Spencer winced as more grisly images flashed through his mind. His hands shook as he piled the chicken nuggets onto the plate. He didn’t notice the grease smudges on the fridge handle as he went to get a glass of milk and some grapes. Please, no panic attack. Not right now. 

It was a miracle that all of the milk made it into the cup.

Finally sitting down at the table with his pathetic meal, he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. There was no avoiding it - Spencer was definitely on the verge of crying. His throat was tight, his vision was blurry. What was wrong with him? Why did he want his mother so badly? Maybe he was one of the many statistics he had read about children who still showed a flawed psychological attachment to their abusers because the small bursts of kindness that they had experienced was so potent that it conflicted with common sense - and the assessment of other adults. 

His mother wasn’t an abuser though. Right? True, Spencer had never been allowed to be a normal kid, to read what he liked, to do what he liked, to play outside and have fun. But that had all been for his own benefit, right? Of course she would want to stimulate his brain capacity, to push its boundaries. It seemed to be virtually limitless. He supposed that if he were the parent of a child with an eidetic memory, he would be loading up as many texts as he could into the kid’s brain in as least time as possible. Spencer had entered high school having read Shakespeare, Plato, and Darwin, but didn’t know anything about the things that his classmates enjoyed. Nor did they seem to take any interest in Mark Twain or C.S. Lewis.

No. If his mother was an abuser, it would come from the fact that she was neglectful and lazy. She relied on Spencer for everything from appointments to meals to getting bills paid on time. She forgot birthdays and holidays, never knew if Spencer was supposed to be in school. She said yes to everything that anyone recommended for Spencer, which was how he ended up taking four AP classes at the ripe age of eleven years old. Spencer was up to his ears in stress that year and many nights had ended in tears. But every night, his mother would read to him until he fell asleep.

He shoved a chicken nugget into his mouth.

Spencer let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as the flavor of the warm breading and tender meat hit his tongue. A ravenous hunger appeared in his stomach. Glad that he wouldn’t be force feeding himself tonight, he dipped another chicken nugget in the ranch dressing and took a bite.

Spencer deserved to have a childhood, he reminded himself. He deserved to be a kid like every other kid. He deserved to play on tire swings and watch TV. He deserved to rely on his mother to pack him school lunches and patch up his bandages. He deserved to like things that weren’t necessarily educational. He deserved to get visits from Santa and the tooth fairy. He deserved to be petted and kissed because his mother loved him, not just because he happened to be in her arms.

He deserved for his team to like him for more than his brains.

Slowly but surely, Spencer realized that his hunger had been part of the emotions welling up inside of him. Each bite began to soften the ache in his belly. He didn’t even notice that tears were sliding down his face until he was halfway through the grapes. He wiped them and took a sip of his milk.

He frowned at it. It was cold.

He put it in the microwave.

Spencer knew that adults weren’t supposed to watch television shows made for children, or want to color in coloring books made for children, or play games made for children, or have night lights and stuffed animals made for children in their rooms. But something about things made for kids just made him smile. He stood in the Valentine’s Day display of a store running his fingers over the fur of a plush, heart-wielding alligator over and over again. He saw swing sets and jungle gyms in the schoolyard and was seized with a desire to run and climb on them, despite the fact that his grasshopper legs would surely get tangled up in the equipment. When he flicked through TV channels in the rare afternoons that he found himself home, his eyes would catch on the bright, happy colors of a cartoon. The characters were so sweet and compelling, and the story was simple. A little question stuck in the back of his head - what do you do when someone’s ideas and yours are contradictory? He’d sit with his finger over the scan button until the cartoon hit a commercial - and then he’d be so embarrassed that he’d turn off the TV altogether.

Eventually, Spencer had come to accept that he had childlike tendencies. He hadn’t been able to resist the allure of an arcade in a hotel the team had stayed at; he walked a little funny to crush fallen leaves and step over sidewalk cracks; he recorded cartoons for himself on the days where a grown-up TV show was just a little too much to handle. 

It didn’t help his self-esteem around his coworkers to know that he found joy in such simple things. He wasn't sure if other people also utilized his little escape. But he was too afraid to ask. It just wasn't appropriate in the workplace for him to question Morgan or JJ about coloring or security blankets. Not to mention he was terrified that they might laugh at him. But despite the embarrassment that the idea of mentioning it brought on, Spencer knew that he was still competent at his job and was able to take care of himself around the apartment. So, he came to the conclusion that he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

_Love childhood, indulge its sports, its pleasures, its delightful instincts. Who has not sometimes regretted that age when laughter was ever on the lips, and when the heart was ever at peace?_

Rousseau.

Tonight was one of those indulging kind of nights, Spencer thought to himself as he rose from the kitchen table and put the greasy plate in the sink. He didn’t want to wash it, but that was alright. He didn’t live with anyone else. All he wanted to do was lay down. 

He made himself comfortable on the sofa and pulled the throw blanket over him. It had become a kind of comfort object. He breathed in its familiar scent as he flicked the TV on.  
The whole wanting-his-mother thing was new for Reid, though. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time. He wondered what had made him think of her tonight. Maybe it was his desire for comfort, for a hug. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Spencer's mind was a constant flurry of other people's words, of mixed messages, of confusing emotions that he wasn’t quite sure how to process. He was continuously being built up and shot down, praised and then scolded, invited and then warned, told that what he was doing came off to other people the opposite of how he intended it to. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was capable of thinking a thought of his own. 

Was it really so wrong of him to find peace in the simplicity of good and evil on a television show, or stare at the face of a stuffed animal that would always be smiling at him no matter what mistakes he made? Was it so bad to find coloring soothing, even if it was a cartoon character he loved instead of the intricate mandalas and flora that other adults were more apt to enjoy? Was he pathetic or weak for lighting up his room with an array of shifting hues to chase away the monsters that had haunted his nightmares since he was a boy? A younger boy, that is. Spencer wasn’t sure if he was a grownup anymore.

Spencer breathed another deep breath and wiped more of his tears as he scrolled to the small collection of cartoons he had saved. He turned one on.

Watching the show made Spencer sleepy. He knew he needed to get on with his night routine because it was late, but he was feeling so warm under his blanket. He didn’t want to go. It was just so nice to forget about the horrors of the evening and slip into a mindset that was so much happier.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. In a few minutes, he would get up, floss, brush, use mouthwash, use the restroom, turn off his light, and crawl into bed. Then he would wake up to his alarm and the day would start anew.

But minutes passed, and Spencer still had not moved. His mind was settling into what he was watching, as though if his thoughts were on a polygraph, he’d see a smooth wavy line matching the mood of the show instead of an array of sharp peaks and valleys like usual. As his brain unwound from its tension and became blissfully blank, his shoulders relaxed. The show was calming. His belly was full. He had his blanket. He remembered he was wearing dinosaur socks. 

He was allowed to want his childhood back, Spencer reassured himself. His breathing began to slow and he found himself drifting into sleep. This was nice. It was nice to feel loved. And you know what? Maybe that was another reason that Spencer liked childish things so much. Maybe it helped him remember to love himself. To dream big. To let down his guard, drop the facade, and be vulnerable every once in a while. To be sure he was thoroughly and sincerely liked by someone, even if that someone was him. Especially if that someone was him. He remembered what it felt like to be a child, when the world still seemed like an adventure waiting to happen. He mourned that those emotions were wasted on academia.

But they were still inside him, were they not? Wasn’t something inside of him that lit up at the smallest wonders - baby animals, Halloween, new packs of gel pens? Wasn’t there something inside of him that was still able to tap into that unbridled, untainted happiness?

_I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be... This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages...the delayed adolescent, the childish adult, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide... Far too many people misunderstand what “putting away childish things” means, and think that forgetting what it is like to think and feel and touch and smell and taste and see and hear like a three-year-old or a thirteen-year-old or a twenty-three-year-old means being grown up. When I'm with these people I, like the kids, feel that if this is what it means to be a grown-up, then I don't ever want to be one. Instead of which, if I can retain a child's awareness and joy, and be fifty-one, then I will really learn what it means to be grown up._

L’Engle.

It was worth it to remember, he decided. Despite how strange other people might think it was, it was worth it to relive the happiest years of his life, to feel safe and comfortable and filled with hope. There was no reason not to. The only thing separating nostalgia - looking back - from the way Spencer felt right now - looking forward - was doing the things that made him happy.  
Spencer Reid, age twenty-five, fell asleep to the sounds of childhood.

He had no nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to know more about Spencer's coping mechanism, please see https://medium.com/invisible-illness/on-coping-mechanisms-age-regression-1e46f04729d4 , or the "#sfw age regression" tag on tumblr.


	3. Observe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon always keeps his eyes wide open.

Jason Gideon was practically invisible.

Well, perhaps not to the average passerby. Certainly not the newspaper boy who waved him hello, to the dogs whose ears pricked up at the sight of him, or to the neighbor boys who apologized for accidentally tossing their ball over his fence. Oh, Jason wasn’t mad at them at all. In fact, he had given them a small smile and chanced a wave, just to let them know that he was aware it was an accident and he was happy that they were having fun.

But to the birds, Jason was nothing more than another lawn ornament, like the heavy glass balls perched on their pretty Ionic pedestals, or the ceramic frogs nestled into the grass, sunk deep into the soft earth, hammered by years of rain. He was stiller than the shiny rainbow polygons that twisted and spun in mesmerizing shapes above his head, and if he wasn’t moving, then he must be safe. So, the birds had no problem at all washing themselves luxuriously in cool stone birdbaths, shaded by the leaves of a stunningly green tree, so bright it almost didn’t look real. Hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees drank their fill of nectar from the candy-colored flowers that burst from the flowerbeds like fireworks. Squirrels and the occasional rabbit hopped across the lawn in search of the seeds that Jason had scattered near the base of the tree. They made mowing a pain, sure - but to see a blue jay or cardinal among the starlings was a blessing that outweighed the inconvenience.

Right now, Jason was watching the flighty movements of an unsure sparrow. He looked young, perhaps a hatchling that had matured a bit slower than the rest. He could fly, Jason could tell, but he was a bit afraid. Another sparrow landed right next to him and began to hop towards the seeds. It pecked at the ground happily. Seeing that there was lots of food and little danger nearby, the sparrow followed its elder - its mother, Jason mused - and began to fill its tiny belly with the best food money could buy.

Risking frightening the baby, Gideon lowered his opera glasses and gently set them on the table beside him. The little bird didn’t notice him at all. So, he felt it safe to reach for his coffee mug with wrinkled, tough hands, like elephant’s skin. He couldn’t count the number of times that he’d wiped someone else’s blood off those hands. He wondered if that’s why the cuticles seemed to be permanently darkened. Some stains never quite go away.

Gideon glanced back towards the street, his eyes running over the familiar sights around him for the millionth time, searching for anomalies. A woman was walking her two sweet dogs. Gideon had seen her many times before, and though he had never spoken to her, he felt as though he knew her intimately. Her dogs were both mutts, which indicated a certain level of compassion. Gideon would have thought that money was an issue, since she didn’t buy from a breeder. But to adopt two dogs instead of one was indicative of the ability to pay for vet bills. Not to mention, on her black leggings from the middle of the calf to the ankle, there were often several short ginger hairs, which suggested either a third dog or a very cuddly cat. Clearly, this was an animal lover - as evidenced by her impressive array of “Treat Distributor” and “Dog Mom” t-shirts. Any person who loved animals this much had to have a compassionate heart. Humanity was created to rule over the beasts of the Earth; they were never commanded to do it kindly. That compulsion, Gideon told himself, came straight from the heart.

She wore a long sleeve shirt tied around her waist, which indicated either overpreparedness or insecurity - but, from the way she carried herself, Jason could tell that she was amiable and outgoing. Extroverted, even. She was having a good time, not completing a chore. Perhaps she invested herself in self-help books. Her gait was awkward, indicative of a childhood injury, and the constant faltering reprimands of her two rambunctious dogs was a clear sign of a lack of assertiveness. A people-pleaser. A pacifist. You would find her carrying the attention of multiple men, but never accepting any of their advances because she’s intimidated. She’s engaged, but probably going to get cold feet because she’s so indecisive. She lives a cut-and-dry life, maybe working a boring office job like receptionist or librarian - one where she gets to interact with people on the daily, but doesn’t stand out in anyone’s memory. That’s what makes her dangerous - people remember her as a friendly face and send her on her way. She probably chooses her victims by talking to them about their daily lives in a way that - 

Jason blinked. The woman was gone.

He took another sip of coffee.

Gideon had worked very hard on his little bird paradise. From the moment he had started to read books and articles on native Virginian birds as a child, he had wanted to see them in person. But he didn’t want to go hiking through the woods as a child, oh, no - he would never feel safe with all the bugs and bears and other creepy crawlies hiding under every moldy log. No, he wanted to see these birds up close and personal, from his own front yard. So that’s what he had done. He had spent hundreds - no, thousands - on the perfect shrubbery and ornamentation for his front yard. He had invested in one-way transparent film to protect them from his large windows, sunflowers and daisies to entice them to land. He bought the largest bags of seed available and even regularly threw berries and nuts out into the grass. It was expensive. It was time-consuming. It was heaven. 

Jason relished in the handful of spring days that he got to spend at home. He took joy in watching the little birds, all their silly little personalities. He almost got the feeling that if he’d needed to, he could profile a bird for a case. It would be much easier with a domestic bird, of course, since they were more apt to show their personalities in a more recognizably human manner, but each little bird absolutely had its own personality, if one was patient enough to watch for it. People didn’t look at birds anymore. They were ignored completely instead. If Jason were a bird, he would feel a little bit better knowing that at least one person was interested in the patterns of his feathers.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely carefree.

Upon hearing the squealing of brakes, Gideon’s eyes flicked to the figure that got out of the truck and approached his house from the right. It was the mailman, carrying a large package. Gideon rose to his feet. His birds darted away.

“Good morning, Mr. Gideon!” The man said jovially.

Unkempt and stubbly. Lopsided smile. Shifty eyes. A tremor in his left hand. Bachelor, divorced, recently unemployed because of a workplace injury that had made him unable to perform tasks that required fine motor function. Jason had never seen him before.

“Good afternoon,” he said calmly, eyeing the package. The man smiled at him with yellowed teeth but healthy gums. Apparently, dental hygiene had been impacted by the injury too - leading Jason to conclude that the man was left-handed. His suspicions were confirmed when he took a clipboard out from under his arm and passed it towards Gideon with his left hand.

“Sign here, please.”

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Jason wasn’t expecting a package. This wasn’t his usual mailman. What was wrong? Did he steal the uniform? How did he know his name? Was this a bomb? Was Gideon agile enough to leap from his porch and run? Could he make it to his gun in time to prevent a home invasion? Were the neighbor boys still around?

“I’m not expecting a package,” Gideon said calmly. This was a guy who flinched at the slighted bit of criticism. Telling him outright that he had made a mistake could be enough to set him off. Gideon felt his muscles shaking. He was standing as rigid as a board. His back was hurting him but he was too alert to care.

“I … I’m sorry?” The man asked, hesitating.

“I’m not expecting a package. Are you sure you have the right house?”

He checked the address on the sticker. “Isn’t this you?” He asked, holding out the package. Gideon took a step backwards, but cast his gaze down to the sticker, hesitant to let his eyes leave the man’s for even a single second. It was, in fact, his address. But that meant nothing - a sticker can be forged laughably easily. “I’m not expecting a package,” he said a bit more firmly. “And I’d kindly like to ask you to leave.”

The man looked hurt. Gideon set his jaw, preparing for a fight. 

“Sir, I really think that -"

“If you have no business here, I’d like you to go,” Gideon said, his voice in a crescendo, “so don’t make me tell you again.”

“But -”

“I’m not asking you!” Gideon snapped. His blood was pounding in his ears and he took a step forward. The man stumbled backwards, clearly intimidated. Good! He should be! No unsub was going to come in, just like that, and kill him that easily.

“Get off my porch,” he said, gearing up for a fight. “Get off my porch!”

“Sir, it’s just - please - 

“Now!”

“ - Will you check the return address?”

Gideon paused. The return address?

The man quickly turned the box around. It vibrated visibly in his left hand. He read out the address. Gideon recognized it - vaguely.

“Let me have it,” Gideon growled. The man quickly passed him the package. It was light, not heavy like a bomb would be.

“If you don’t want the package, I’ll have to get rid of it,” the man stammered. “I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t want to return to sender or something.”

Gideon tore open the package and breathed out a sigh. He felt a little foolish. It was only a sweater and a handwritten note, clearly his sister’s script.

The man still looked terrified. Gideon cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t your fault.”

A starling came and landed on the lawn.

The man laughed nervously. “It’s alright,” he said. “Will - will you sign, please?”

“Of course,” Gideon said quickly. He signed the paper with trembling fingers and gave the clipboard back, feeling humbled. “I apologize for the ruckus. I’m just not very good with mail. Comes with being old, I suppose.”

Gideon hadn’t seen that anger from himself in a long time.

The man flashed his yellow grin. “That’s okay, sir. You have a good day,” he said, and quickly scampered back down the lawn.

The pain in his back radiating as though it might rain, Gideon lowered himself into the rocking chair and heaved a heavy sigh. What was getting into him? First the lady at the grocery counter and now this? He knew he was a good profiler. He knew it. But what if he began to make those mistakes in the field? What if he started to suspect the people he shouldn’t - his own team, the law enforcement in other cities - and landed innocent lives behind bars? The rest of the team looked up to him, trusted his judgement. Gideon felt as though he’d been lying to them. He was sharp as a tack indeed - but was his judgement going senile? He wasn’t sure he trusted himself anymore. He wondered if it might be time to retire.

The neighbor boys landed their red rubber ball in the birdbath again, and the birds scattered like marbles on a wood floor. The youngest came around to fetch it. Gideon gave him a wave, but couldn’t make himself do more than grimace. What it would take to find a little peace.

His gun may have been stowed, his badge tucked neatly in his bedside table, but Gideon hardly felt safe and sound. He hardly felt at home. Where was home, if not the place where you felt free of prying eyes and listening ears? Where was home, if not the place where you could see things and take them at face value? He stood in the kitchen for half an hour that morning, trying to remember if he’d left the top off of his coffee grounds the night prior. He’d ended up checking closets and under the stairs, listening in the walls. He’d sent a message to his sister without even realizing that she’d sent him a happy birthday wish. She’d even let him know that she was sending him a gift for his birthday. How could Gideon have forgotten? What details of a case would slip his mind? What innocent people like his mailman would be hurt because of his lack of memory? Was it age? Was it illness? Was he being followed? Was he going mad? Gideon wasn’t sure anymore. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the birds.

He found he couldn’t do it. He had to open his eyes.

The birds on the lawn were twittering away, as happy as they always were. Gideon wished he were like a bird, free to go anywhere he wanted, free to see the country, free to settle anywhere he chose for the night. What was the world like across the country? What were the parts of New Orleans that screamed of jazz, the parts of Hollywood that hosted movie stars, the parts of Rockland that boasted the best lobster? What was it like to be chatted up by a waitress and see a friendly mother of two instead of an interrogator? What would it feel like to sit and watch children playing in the park without the fear that someone else might be doing the same? What would it be like to attend functions and events for the events themselves and not for clues to solve a murder? It would feel so nice to escape, to be anonymous, to feel the love of the general public instead of its hate. There was good in the world, Jason saw it in his coworkers. His family. There had to be more out there. The Lord provided for the birds of the air. Surely, should Gideon abandon domestic pursuits and search for the spark of divinity that was promised in the hearts of man, He would provide for him as well.

_A frivolous daydream for a silly old man,_ he thought to himself.

His phone buzzed and chimed on the table next to him, and he picked it up, shaken from his reverie.

_New case. Need you here,_ Hotch said. 

Gideon sighed again and pushed himself up on creaky knees. He walked inside, feeling the weight of silence as he closed the front door behind him, and pulled the drawer of his bedside table open. He took out his badge. Special Agent Jason Gideon, it said.

He closed it and tucked it back into his pocket, preparing himself to enter the battlefield of the mind once again.

_An impossible daydream for a silly old man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to know more about Gideon's coping mechanism, please visit https://www.audubon.org/news/how-begin-birding . If you'd like to know how you can help those with PTSD, please visit https://www.helpguide.org/articles/ptsd-trauma/helping-someone-with-ptsd.htm


	4. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strange case of "Dr. Aaron" and "Mr. Hotch."

“Daddy,” Jack whined, his neon putt-putt club drooping in his hands. Hotch lifted his gaze to his son, and he pointed to the little festive fountain adorned with cheery gnomes and comically large mushrooms. The little orange ball had once again shot straight into the water with a satisfying _ker-plunk,_ much to his son’s chagrin, and he seemed closer and closer to a tantrum with every loss.

Hotch sighed and stuck his arm into the slimy little pool all the way up to the elbow for the eighth time that day, fighting his way through clumps of algae.

“Hang on,” he said, his eyebrows screwed up in concentration as Haley came over to see what the fuss was. Eventually, his hand brushed against a hard round object and resurfaced with the prize. Though Jack had been impressed with this magician’s feat the first time around, his little face remained screwed up in a pout. Haley gave him a tired smile as Aaron handed the ball back to his son. “Now, try to aim away from the water this time,” he said with a note of exasperation. Jack put the ball back onto its starting position and aimed his club once more. Haley set a tender hand on his shoulder.

“This was your idea, you know,” she teased him lightly. “I suggested a movie.” 

“We can’t talk during a movie,” he countered her, silently correcting his son’s poor technique. “I just wanted to be able to have some real family time.”

“You really shouldn’t be talking during golf either,” Haley tittered. Her hand moved its way up to his neck and Aaron felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew before her fingers even got there that she was going to stroke just below his earlobe, one of the most sensitive spots on the human body. Or at least, Aaron’s body. He felt a little shiver in his back. “Maybe we should have gone to Chuck-E-Cheese’s," she joked.

“Right, because introducing a four-year-old to the joys of fast food and gambling is exactly the way I wanted to raise him,” Aaron said. Haley’s fingernails were barely touching his chin and she moved a little closer to him.

_Ker-plunk._

Jack’s face screwed up in frustration and he threw down his golf club, stomping his feet angrily. Boy, the kid had a temper.

“Hey, now,” Aaron said, breaking his connection to Haley just before she was able to land a kiss on his cheek. He dove for the ball while Jack screamed,

“I don’t wanna play with the stupid ball!”

“We don’t say words like stupid, Jack. Say silly.”

“No!” Jack screamed at his mother. Hotch straightened up, but held tight to the ball instead of giving it back to his son. 

“Jack,” Haley said firmly, “If you don’t turn that attitude around right now, we’re going to go straight home.”

Jack’s face turned red and tears filled his little brown eyes. He dissolved into tears, half-tantrum, half-something else.

Aaron’s heart broke for his son. He knew what the other half was; a mixture of frustration and feelings of inadequacy. He had been practically singing his excitement on the way there, kicking his little light-up sneakers, telling Daddy all about how he was going to get the most points. When Haley had laughingly told him that the aim of the game was to get the least points, he had changed his tune on the turn of a dime, bragging about how he’d get the least points of anyone in the whole place. Aaron had felt a little smile break across his face - something that happened much more often with Haley and his boy.

Hotch had been desperate for time with his family. The influx of cases at the BAU had left Garcia frazzled, trying to sift through the mounds of information, and the rest of the team exhausted, chasing bad guy after bad guy. At one point, Aaron realized he’d been home for a total of six hours over a three-week period. He missed his pillow. He missed his pillow talk. He was reeling with names and statistics and murderous images. His dreams felt more real than his life did. Finally, something inside of him snapped, and he decided that it was time to get away. He had reached his limit. So, he’d walked in the door, carrying his go bag and eye bags as though they carried the weight of the world, and announced to a stunned Haley that they were leaving for the weekend and not coming back - for anything.

Haley had been excited out of her mind. The minute she had finished feeding Jack his macaroni and apple pieces, she had rushed to her room and begun to pack her things. She must have been desperate for a getaway, too. After seven years of marriage, they had never taken a vacation together - besides their honeymoon, of course. Aaron had refused to tell her where exactly he had booked their vacation, but she must have had some big aspirations, since she had told all of her friends and even her book club that she was going away and wouldn’t be reachable for a while. Hotch had even suspected that she had packed a few outfits meant for his eyes only.

The little resort that Aaron had found was a ways into the forest and probably wouldn’t have the best cell reception. But this was no cabin in the woods. It was a getaway filled with arcade lights, roller coasters, spa treatments, continental breakfast, open bars, and themed bedrooms covered in trees and animals. It cost a pretty penny, but Aaron was sure that it had been worth the price. From the moment they entered, Jack was enthralled by the curious critters, and Haley’s eyes had caught on the fancy lights of an indoor restaurant. She had smiled at him with a glow brighter than a streetlamp. Aaron couldn’t help but do the same. It was as though they had escaped into another world.

“Hey,” Aaron said, kneeling down to comfort his son. His heart panged at Haley’s sharp tone. “I’m kinda done with this anyway. Wanna ditch this and go get some pizza?” Jack nodded vigorously, fat tears still pouring down his cheeks.

Haley looked at him incredulously. “Pizza?” she said. “Aaron. We can’t just … reward the bad behavior,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. 

Aaron shrugged. “We’re just having fun,” he tried to reassure her. “We’re on vacation. It’s okay.”

“He needs to learn to respect other people’s property,” she argued, picking up the club. “No throwing, Jack, that’s mean.”

“You won’t do it again, right, buddy?” Aaron asked, picking Jack up. The boy shyly took the club back and nodded, making a little noise of assent that warmed Aaron’s heart.  
Haley sighed and shook her head a little as they trudged back towards the booth where they'd gotten the clubs.

“What?” Aaron asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Haley. What?”

“I said nothing. It’s fine.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“I don’t think that Jack should be let off the hook for throwing a tantrum.”

“Haley …”

Hotch wasn’t happy with how this conversation was going. He’d hoped that Haley would have felt the same way - ditch the game and go get pizza, who wouldn’t want that? It was getting to be a bit long and a bit boring, and they had quickly discovered that Jack was not quite of the age where his hand-eye coordination could handle a golf ball adequately. But Haley wasn’t, apparently, a fan of the idea of dismissing the game. She had always been a finisher, just like Hotch - but today, this weekend, they were allowed to not finish things. Their meals, their emails, even their activities. They could jump from thing to thing as they pleased. Jack had been on cloud nine. So had Aaron. Haley was the one holding them back, insisting they finish their plates and make their beds.

Aaron often felt as though he were living a double life, as though he were two separate people. The first Aaron - Hotch - was the one that his team knew. He was a team leader, a go-getter, a scrutinizer, a force to be reckoned with. He was the opinion that all others were held up to, the one whose words were law. He used his power responsibly, and that earned him a great deal of respect. Subordinates obeyed him; superiors commended him. He was a tall, dark tower of power, and any bad guy that encountered him was immediately put on edge.

But at home, Haley and Jack softened that hard stare. Hotch found himself doing silly voices for his boy, biting at his little belly and making him squeal with giggles, then tackling his wife and blowing a raspberry into her beautiful stretch marks. She would tangle her fingers in his hair and beg him to release her through their laughs, and then they would play out in the snow or the sprinklers and eat ice cream and watch movies and scribble with crayons all over paper, and Hotch would kiss his wife and dance with her in the kitchen while Jack banged on his little toy drum set, and all would be good with the world. It seemed so different, so unlike his job. And those moments rarely lasted long. Just as Hotch began to loosen up, to settle into the man he knew Haley had married, he found himself sending texts to the rest of his team, telling them to abandon their own happiness and join him on the flight to their next crime scene. For anybody other than his team, the very idea of being ripped away so often would be hell.

For the most part, Aaron handled this need for flexibility with remarkable grace. He was ready at any moment to respond to his obligations, and he did so with gusto. He was a man of his morals. He wasn’t about to abandon them for pleasure. Haley and Jack, as much as they meant to him, were his pleasure; and frankly, they were the only two people in the world who would be waiting for him when he came back home. They would forgive him for being gone for one day later than he should have been. An unsub would not be so kind.

The lines sometimes blurred between the strange case of "Dr. Aaron" and "Mr. Hotch." Reid had showed him a drawing that he had made of an unsub, scratched on the back of a gas station receipt with a blue pen, and Aaron had slipped into such a paternal tone that it made Reid blush. Hotch had cleared his throat and dismissed the image with a nod, but Reid couldn’t hide his smile as he buried his nose back in his book. Morgan and Prentiss exchanged a glance and Hotch found his own face feeling a little warm. He looked out the window to distract himself. 

Rossi had offered him a beer as they were celebrating on the porch of a family they had saved - and for just a moment, Hotch’s head was transported to another place. He wasn’t at a crime scene anymore. He was standing on his neighbor’s deck, grilling a barbeque, watching his family have fun. But even as he threw back his head and laughed at David’s joke, he felt his heart sink, thinking of Haley all alone, taking care of their son, as he was drinking the night away like an absent father.

Recently, it had all just become too much to bear. He felt as though his soul might split in two if he had to keep pushing down the man he wanted to be ... the man he was around his family. All Aaron had wanted was an escape, to evade the trials he endured for just one blessed weekend.

And right now, that little fantasy was dissolving before his very eyes.

“You’re giving him what he wants, Aaron, I’ve been trying to teach him to use his words in a nice way.”

“I’m just trying to diffuse the situation,” Aaron argued. Jack nestled into his arms and made a disgruntled noise, sensing his parents’ rising tempers.

“You’re always doing this,” Haley said, her pace quickening, her shoes thumping over a bridge that spanned a bubbling brook. “You’re always giving into him, he’s going to have no discipline.”

Aaron marched after her. “No discipline? Haley, I’m always teaching him responsibility.”

“Oh, and suddenly that goes out the window just because we’re on vacation?”

“He just threw the club down, I’d have done the same thing.”

“Aaron, that’s not acceptable behavior!”

“But it’s understandable. He wanted to impress me and he feels embarrassed that he can’t.”

“This is a discussion for later.”

“I agree, but you started this discussion now.”

Haley reached the counter and slammed the golf clubs down. “Fine. Then you and Jack go find something to do and I’ll go back up to the room until you’re ready to talk to me like an adult.”

“Haley, that’s not fair.”

“Fair to who, Aaron? Fair to me? Fair to Jack? Because no, It’s not,” she said, her voice tightening. “You know what he does, Aaron? He’ll ask me for something, and when I tell him no, he asks you because he knows that you’ll give it to him. And on Monday he told me that he wished you were home because you’re nicer to him than I am, and then you came home and gave him ice cream and made me look like the bad guy.”

“I didn’t know that happened, Haley, I couldn’t have known that.”

“You could have if you’d stopped and asked me how I was doing! This isn’t helping, Aaron!” She spat. “You, doing this! You’re undermining me, that’s what you’re doing every time you do that!”

“Jack, did you say that to your mother?” Aaron asked his son. 

“Noo,” Jack said softly. 

“Come on, Jack, yes you did,” Aaron coaxed gently. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to Mommy.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I know, Haley,” Aaron said, his voice terse.

“So tell him off for lying!”

“Damn it, Haley, I’m getting there!” Aaron roared, his voice erupting from his chest unanticipated. Jack flinched in his arms and began to cry. “Oh, no, Jack, I’m so sorry, baby …” Aaron said, immediately regretful.

“There you go again,” Haley said. She threw a few dollars at the poor receptionist and stormed off towards the doors to the main entrance hall of the hotel. Aaron followed her, fuming.   
“What did I do wrong this time, I comforted my son?”

“Don’t.”

“Haley, talk to me!”

“Go figure it out if you’re so smart!” She said, turning on her heel. “Please, Aaron, I can’t do this right now - I’ve just been so stressed and I - I just need a minute. Go and think about it. Please. I just need some time alone.”

Aaron felt his heart sink in his chest. That wasn’t the point of being there. The whole point was to be together and suddenly he felt as though he’d just driven a spike between them. “I just want this to be over so we can go back to our day,” he said. “Just some pizza and ice cream before our movie, that’s all I wanted.”

“Well, I’m not feeling it right now, Aaron,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Maybe you can just - just let the whole world roll off your shoulders like that, but I can’t. And I need some time to figure it out before I come back. Okay?”

Hotch sighed deeply and set Jack gently on the ground. He asked him softly, “Would you like to stay with me or with Mommy?”

Jack moved shyly behind his leg, looking up at his mother with wide, fearful eyes.

Haley licked her lips, nodding absently, tears brimming in her eyes. “Okay,” she said, her voice thick. “I guess I’ll … I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” Aaron said. He took his son’s hand and they went their separate ways.

Truth be told, Aaron wasn’t as good at separating his lives as he made it out to be. Haley was right - it was hard to let the world roll off your back. There were many nights that he had awoken in a cold sweat, and had to get a drink of water at the kitchen island to calm himself down. Sometimes it didn’t work until it was whiskey. He constantly felt surrounded by the demands of his job, like a flighty rabbit pursued by a fox. So what did Hotch do? He employed evasive maneuvers - little forays into the paradise of his home life.

What was he left with if his home life was no longer soothing enough?

Perhaps that was part of the reason that he had planned to come to the resort - to give himself and Haley an environment so free and so happy that they couldn’t possibly poison their time together with some petty argument.

Look how that worked.

Jack sprinted towards the same playground that they had visited countless times over the last two days in between their other events and activities, and Hotch watched him with a heavy heart. He loved his boy, and he loved his wife. Haley would come around, he was sure of it. He would make it up to them for the rest of the trip. They would take only happy memories from this day, this weekend, from their little escape. When Aaron felt suffocated by the darkness, he could look back on this little light and feel some hope flicker in his chest.

He was sure of it.

Jack was waving at him from the top of the jungle gym. 

Aaron Hotchner waved back at his boy, a bittersweet smile appearing on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to know more about Hotch's coping mechanism, the fictional resort in the story is inspired by the chain resort Great Wolf Lodge. Please visit https://www.greatwolf.com/ for more information. If you would like to know about other ways you can spend time with family that don't cost so much money, check out https://www.mindfulmazing.com/45-fun-family-night-ideas-the-entire-family-will-love/ or search for other family activities online.


End file.
